


Force of Will

by sittinginmytincan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post-Canon, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sorta canon-divergent, Sourwolf Derek Hale, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is also a Bad Friend, sorta canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-31 02:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sittinginmytincan/pseuds/sittinginmytincan
Summary: An escape in six acts.Stiles Stilinski has a spark. The more he nurtures it and the crazier Beacon Hills becomes, the more he realizes that this isn't the story he wants to be in.





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small thing I felt compelled to write. This is no more graphic or violent than the show itself.

Nothing about tonight was going well.

Stiles stood outside the warehouse, the last of the mountain ash clutched tightly in one hand and the now-hated message tone of Scott’s answering service coming from the phone held in the other. Had Stiles missed something? Was Scott allergic to answering his phone these days? All those times with Allison, then that time in the pool, and now . . .

“Scott, pick up.” Gunshots and growls echoed behind him. _Awesome_. Stiles swallowed. “Pick up now. Look, I got fifty feet of ash left and I’m out, okay, so you gotta get your _wolf ass_ down here to help me cause _I don’t know_ _what to do_ and I’m just standing out here and I’m . . . and I’m all alone and I’m hearing gunfire and werewolves and I’m—and I’m standing here like _a freaking idiot_ all by myself with a handful of magic fairy dust. And I don’t have enough. Okay?”

Stiles stuffed his phone into his pocket and eyed the distance between him and the start of the mountain ash circle.

Yup, royally fucked. Too far. His handful wouldn’t cut it.

How the hell was he supposed to do this? He wasn’t anything special or supernatural. This wasn’t his area. Magic wasn’t even real. Like . . . werewolves . . . supposedly . . .

Bad example.

Okay, _actually_ , it was a stupid plan, a sucky useless fucking plan. And he’d been right; the sucky plan needed another bag of mountain ash. He’d _told_ Scott this, he’d told him so many freaking times, and Scott had just bailed on him and _fuck_ —

Too much was wrong right now: Scott and Allison breaking up; Jackson being the kanima; actual freaking werewolves and twisted hunters running around; Derek probably in that fight Stiles could hear under the music from the concert; his dad . . .

It was a stupid plan, but, shit, Stiles _needed_ to get this right.

This was on him.

Deaton seemed to think he could do it.

Stiles stared down the distance. Fifty feet. Give or take.

Focus.

 _Focus, focus, focus_.

What had Deaton said? _Believe. Imagine_. So picture the line, imagine it working. Imagine.

He muttered to himself, the ash a hard compacted mass in his hand. So easy to let it slip through his fingers, to bridge that fifty feet of concrete.

Imagine.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled. Twisted his wrists. He could see it, the unbroken black powdery line, a barrier to keep the bad things in. Completed. Easy. A handful would do it. A handful would be more than enough.

He opened eyes and started walking, loosening his fingers slightly to let the ash trickle out.

One step, then another.

The ash kept falling.

He kept walking.

Each piece fell, the mass in his hand growing smaller with every step.

It would be enough.

It was.

It had to be.

He tried not to panic as he stepped past his Jeep, the end of the line still far away, and the mound of ash was just the size of a Twinkie—a finger—a thumb—an almond—then nothing, just a few flakes stuck to his palm with sweat. He stretched his hand, reaching for something he couldn’t touch.

He closed his eyes against the disappointment and fear spiking through him. He’d fucked up again.

Opened his eyes and saw the unbroken line.

Holy shit.

He scanned up the building then back down past his Jeep, to where the empty bag lay.

Unbroken.

Whole.

The line was complete and circled the building.

 _He’d done it_.

“Yes!”

Energy surged through him and he jumped, then leaped on the bonnet of the nearest car in celebration—and to enjoy his handiwork.

The car alarm went off.

Shit.

He stumbled off it then looked the line over again with glee. Victory punch time.

Fuck _yeah_. He might be human and messed up and need Adderall like other people needed water, but he could _do shit_.

Time to find Erica and Isaac.

 

He’d lost Erica and Isaac. _And_ Jackson.

Shitty plan.

And seriously, where the fuck was Scott?

Stiles headed over the ash line to wait for Erica and Isaac to catch up, because if he was going to hang around waiting for people to show up, he wanted to be on the side the kanima couldn’t cross.

Derek ran out of the alley, and it was silly how relieved Stiles was to see him. Frowny as usual, but alive.

And wearing that damn Henley. Again.

Stiles couldn’t let himself be distracted right now.

“Hey,” he said. “Um, so we kinda lost Jackson inside? But it’s—”

Erica and Isaac finally emerged from the warehouse and paused before the line, their faces turning (extra) worried once they realized the ash was there. They couldn’t step over it.

“Oh my god, it’s working!” Stiles raised his hands in glee. _Yes._ He was never not going to be proud of this.

He turned to Derek. “I did something!”

Derek looked stunned. “Seriously, Stiles? Was this—” he gestured at Erica and Isaac “—part of Scott’s plan?”

Stiles blinked at him. “Yeah? Didn’t he say?”

“He said we needed to distract the Argents and that he’d tell Isaac and Erica what to do about Jackson once they were inside.” Derek crossed his arms, face angrier than normal. “That’s all he said. I knew he planned to use a barrier, but I thought it would involve isolating Jackson and his master together. Not leaving them behind the barrier _with_ Jackson.”

Oh fuck. Stiles _knew_ this had been a stupid plan.

“You didn’t know? I thought you knew.”

Derek shook his head. “This is like the pool all over again.”

Oh. Did he . . . did Derek also think about the pool? Because while Stiles would never ever want to be in that situation again, and he was pretty sure Derek felt the same way, he couldn’t help remembering some of the nicer details. Like Derek in wet clothes. Like touching Derek in wet clothes.

Wait, he was talking about making stupid plans and not filling everyone in on the details.

Stiles caught Derek’s eye and honestly? Sourwolf’s glowery face wasn’t giving him any clues. Derek was all intense and broody and _staring_ at him. Stiles was already high on adrenaline from almost having his face ripped off by the kanima, he didn’t need more excitement.

“So what do we do?” His attention jerked to Erica as she spread her hands. “The kanima is _pissed_ , we’re out of ketamine, and, newsflash, I don’t want to be in here with it.”

Derek made a growly sound that definitely wasn’t sexy in any way at all. “Break the line and get them out, Stiles.”

The fuck? He’d just _made_ that line! “But what if that lets the kanima out?”

“So, put the line back together once they’re over it.”

“That still gives Jackson time to go over. We don’t know where he is or what he’s doing.” Stiles gestured at them. “They can handle themselves.”

Derek gripped his shoulder. “As far as I’m concerned, them being in there _isn’t_ part of the plan. Get them out.”

Argh, he had a point. Scott had been gone too long, Jackson was loose, who the fuck knew what the Argents were doing—

A roar came from somewhere and Derek immediately dropped his hand from Stiles’ shoulder, looking around. “Scott . . .”

Stiles squinted at him. “What?”

“Break it,” Derek snapped.

Hell no, Stiles did _not_ answer to orders like that, especially not when the barrier was _his baby_. “What? No way, I just—”

“Scott’s dying!”

Dying? Was he serious? “What—okay, what—how do you know that?”

Derek threw his hands up. “Oh my god—look, Stiles, I just know, break it!”

Sweet freaking hell, _fine_. There was no arguing with that. Stiles bent down and waved a gap in the barrier. Derek raced across.

Scott was dying. Maybe Stiles should be more worried about that, but he couldn’t help staring at the line he’d just broken. He could probably put it back together, but what was the point? The plan was fucked anyway.

Finally, he’d done something actually amazing, and it didn’t count for shit.

He rose and met Erica and Isaac’s gazes. They were more relaxed now the barrier was broken. Stiles shrugged and went over. Time to follow Derek and see just how much things had fucked up.

The only good thing about that night was the text Stiles later received from Derek: _Heard what actually went down with the mountain ash. Impressive._


	2. The Second Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewatching certain scenes to get the dialogue right was very enjoyable XD

Stiles’ heart ached and his head was more of a mess than usual. He stared at the empty hospital roof, the silhouettes of Scott and Deucalion swallowed by the mist.

His dad was taken.

His dad was _gone_.

He’d realized it too late and he was gone and so was Melissa and—and—

The plan had gone to shit (again, as per fucking usual) and Jennifer took Derek down then stole away _their parents_.

And instead of being the improviser Stiles knew Scott could be, his best friend made a deal with _Deucalion_ for _no fucking reason_. Scott. The guy who was constantly saying there was another way. And there _was_ another way. They had resources, they had friends, they had people who could help; better people than a slimy, lying, strangely-accented alpha who Stiles didn’t trust as far as he could throw. If his recent lacrosse practices were any indicator, that really wasn’t very far.

Fuck this. Derek needed help.

Stiles sprinted back inside the hospital, down to the elevator where they’d found Derek. He hated himself for leaving him there on the way up, but hell—just another regret to add to the list.

He stumbled to his knees over Derek’s body. Shit, he looked bad. Stiles felt for a pulse and found one—a bare hint of one. Werewolves healed quickly, so why wasn’t Derek up yet? Why wasn’t the amazing fucking supernatural healing _working_?

He froze, mind whirring. _Get_ up _Derek, Dad is missing Dad is missing Dad is missing_ —

He grabbed Derek’s shirt, something he hadn’t done in too long, and shook him.

No response.

Something in Stiles snapped.

“WAKE UP.” He slapped Derek across the face. Pain would help, pain prompted the healing process. “Derek!” Another slap.

Stiles needed Derek awake, because if his dad was gone and Scott was gone . . . Stiles would be damned if he lost someone else. Even though Derek wasn’t Stiles’ to lose. Well, Derek was part of the pack. That meant Stiles could consider him his.

God, he’d never wanted to see Derek’s stupid scowl so badly.

“Derek, _come on!_ ”

He shook him. Nothing. Another slap. Nothing. _Fuck_.

He flexed his hand, willing it to draw Derek out, to bring Derek back to him. Clenched it, felt it, meant it as he drew back, intending _this_ would open Derek’s eyes, _this_ would bring him back, brought down all his desire and need and strength—

His wrist was grabbed, stopped, and Derek’s eyes opened, the familiar green washed out by the flickering florescent light in the elevator.

Stiles gaped at him, then at his fist. He’d done . . . something. A familiar rush of adrenaline coursed through him and, bizarrely, he thought of the time he made the mountain ash barrier.

Derek had touched his shoulder that night.

Derek eased the grip on his wrist, looking around him. “Where is she?” His voice was raspy and weary as his gaze locked on Stiles’.

She . . .? “Jennifer?” Of course he’d ask about Jennifer. “Gone, with Scott’s mom.”

Derek looked aghast. “She took her?”

“Yeah, and if that’s not enough of a kick to the balls, Scott left with Deucalion, okay?” Derek’s eyes widened. Stiles needed him up. “So we gotta get you out of here—police are coming right now, and we gotta get you the hell out of here.”

Stiles twisted his arm and caught Derek’s hand, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up.

“Whoa.” Derek’s gaze flickered around the elevator and back to Stiles. “What about Cora?”

“She’s with us.” Stiles helped Derek stand. “Isaac and Peter have her, they should be getting her to safety.”

Derek gripped Stiles’ shoulder, chest heaving. “I need to see her.”

He groaned and seemed dizzy, but Stiles could hear sirens now. Derek had to go. He put Derek’s arm over his shoulder and looped his arm around Derek’s torso. “Let’s move.”

They began walking towards the carpark, Derek’s steps heavy and uneven.

“Jennifer told me she could save Cora,” Derek said.

“No shit. Pretty sure she _did_ that to Cora.” Stiles was getting out of breath. Derek was heavy. Solid. Stupid, muscly, warm . . .

“I need to make sure she’s safe.” Derek stumbled. “Wait, you said Scott went with Deucalion?”

“Yeah.”

Derek turned, disbelief all over his face. “ _Why_?”

“Deucalion said he’d help Scott get his mom and my dad.”

Derek stopped walking. “Your dad? Jennifer has your dad too?”

Stiles pushed at him. There wasn’t time for this. “Yeah.”

“Stiles, we’ll get him back.”

He glanced at Derek. No scowly face, no sarcasm. Just sincere belief on that gorgeous face. Tears threatened and Stiles looked down. “I know.”

“I mean it, Stiles. If it’s just Melissa and your dad, then Jennifer needs one more. They’re still alive. We can find them.”

Derek’s arm tightened around Stiles’ shoulders. He blinked, then pressed his face into Derek’s chest. It was better than his dreams—and he’d had many where he ended up with Derek just like this.

But he couldn’t be happy. Not when his dad was gone, and Derek wasn't interested back. But honestly, he needed this. He needed to hear Derek say that.

“Yeah,” he croaked into Derek’s shirt. “We will. We’ll help Cora get better, and we’ll make sure your next girlfriend isn’t a psycho killer.”

Derek huffed. “Relationships aren’t gonna happen for a while.” He loosened his arm and straightened. “Okay, I think I’m good.”

Stiles backed away, nursing that promise that things would be okay. They _would_ get his dad and Melissa back, and they would help Cora—but first, Derek had to get to safety. He took a deep breath and put his shoulders back. “Go. Find Isaac and Peter. I’ll talk to the police and keep them away from you guys.”

Derek stared at him, frowning in the way Stiles knew too well. “If you’re sure. We’ll be at my loft if you need us.”

“Got it.”

Derek gripped Stiles’ arm. “You’re too young for this. I mean . . . Never mind. I know you can handle it anyway. Stay safe.” Then he was gone, a blur down the hallway.

Stiles blinked. That had been _nice_. There was a hot impression on his arm, like Derek had branded him. The heat went down to the bone before subsiding.

He drew a shuddering breath. There was a lot to do and time was ticking. He steeled himself for the police. He could do this.

Of course he could.

He had to.

 

The flattened edges of his dad’s badge bit into Stiles’ palm. He didn’t know if it was the herbs in the ice baths or the impending ritual—call it what it was, _temporary death_ —but something twisted in the air tonight. Something twisted in him. His veins thrummed and his breath came sharply. His fingers kept tracing the studded imprints on his dad’s badge over and over.

Stiles didn’t want to die, not even momentarily. If Deaton and Morrell were like Jennifer, surely they knew better ways to break her ritual. Balance, balance—how were substitute sacrifices keeping balance? It felt too much like a loophole. Stiles already carried enough darkness.

But he’d carry more to find his dad.

Stiles couldn’t help thinking of Derek’s certainty. _We’ll find your dad_. Who was ‘we’ now?

Lydia helped.

The Argents helped.

Derek . . . looked over Cora. None of the Hales could remember the nemeton’s location, so instead they huddled around each other and watched Cora struggle to breathe.

Stiles understood, he _did_ , because the Hales had lost enough people—but right now, in this group, in the veterinary clinic, he wished . . .

 “But it’s not just someone to hold you under,” Deaton was saying, “it needs to be someone who can pull you back. Someone that has a strong connection to you. An emotional tether.”

Stiles figured the combinations out instantly—Deaton with Scott, Isaac with Allison (because _something_ was going on there), and Lydia with him. That was okay. He trusted Lydia implicitly. After all they’d been through, she was as amazing to him as she had ever been. Even now, when she was a shadow of her former self, with a scream and abilities that made him shiver when he thought about them too much.

Lydia clearly thought she was meant to help Allison, but Deaton stopped her. Which meant Scott, Allison and Isaac had the kind of public realization that ordinarily would have had Stiles cracking jokes for days. He couldn’t find the energy to laugh. Scott looked the way Stiles felt.

The ice hurt.

Strangeness twisted inside Stiles.

His lungs burned.

First came pain, then relaxation, then a draining into—

_building_

_lights_

_linoleum_

_tree stump_

_dead body_

_dad_

_nemeton_

_nemeton_

_nemeton_

He rushed out of the water, air hurting his lungs as he gasped. The nemeton was there, so clear, in him, a golden connection running between the two of them. Details slipped away from him—he remembered things from the night Scott was bitten. He found the nemeton, touched it, and something surged from him to it. His veins ignited and he felt power pulsing through him with every heartbeat. Now, in the world, in life, whatever he’d seen was fading. But he could still feel that connection. It was odd, yet so right. An openness that wasn’t there before. A potential.

What was it Deaton had said last year? With the mountain ash? Something about a spark.

But there wasn’t any time to reflect. They’d spent too long under and timing was down to the wire— _if_ their parents were still alive. _If_ Jennifer hadn’t already completed her murderous ritual.

And of course, one of the Alphahole Twins showed up with news that Derek was due for an Alpha trial that evening and needed help.

Lydia went.

Stiles had to find something of his dad’s to help them search the area around the nemeton. He drove out to the Preserve as a storm rolled in. Unnatural lightning and cloud formation plus heavy winds distracted him enough that when something hit his windshield, he reacted badly and sent the Jeep head-on into a tree.

The next thing he knew, he was staring at that tree, his head aching and face sticky with blood. His baby was all crumpled and the moon was starting to turn red. There was still time. He managed to get Roscoe started again and drove as far as he could before running to the nemeton.

His dad was still alive.

So were Melissa and Chris Argent, and Allison and Isaac.

For a moment, even with the ground caving on them and winds howling, everything was perfect, because his dad was still alive.

As he helped everyone survive underground, he could feel the energy around the stump, the way it battled with the forces that drove the wind and the earth. It almost felt like he could touch them, but that was absurd.

He wondered what was happening with Jennifer.

He hoped Derek was all right.

When it was finally over, life returned to something resembling normal. Deucalion was spared—for some reason Stiles couldn’t fathom, though he guessed killing Jennifer had something to do with it—and the Alphahole Twins turned out to be kind of okay when they weren’t following Deucalion. Scott was an alpha now, but that didn’t help at all where his dad was concerned. Stiles had his dad back—but Derek left.

All the Hales did.

Stiles swallowed the disappointment, let it slide to join the lingering darkness that had grown around his heart. He had dreams. Well, not _dreams_ , but . . . They didn’t matter. Just dreams. Smiles were tougher to come by, but he tried. There was so much to be grateful for. His dad. His friends. His pack. The potential that still lingered in his veins.


	3. The Third Time

_It seems like he’s played this game forever._

_Nothing else matters except the next move._

_Go isn’t something he’s played much. A little, enough to get a feel for the strategy and thinking needed. It’s not his preferred game though._

_He doesn’t look at his opponent._

_The nemeton is under him, its presence comforting. He can tell his opponent wants it and it’s on the board before him. One of the territories. Part of the game. He’s given up so much, but not that. Not yet._

_It’s a tight balance. His opponent is better than him, but so far, Stiles has been lucky._

_A howl—roar, really—makes him look up._

_Scott and Lydia stand on the other side of the building._

_Wait._

_He’s been here before._

_He’s not supposed to be here now._

_And his opponent is the thing that crept in his head and used him._

_Tried to get the nemeton._

_Go isn’t his game._

_Stiles sends the pieces flying._

 

It was worse than the ice water. More painful. Being spat out from the clutch of a dark spirit wasn’t the same as paying a price to the nemeton. More of an audience as well, watching him emerge like one of the nogitsune’s riddles, wrapped in perception and trickery. Unwelcome. The one person he really wanted to be there wasn’t.

As Stiles was fussed over and monitored—to make sure he was the real Stiles, and he was glad he didn’t have to make that decision—he ignored the aching cold deep in his bones by sorting through his memories.

Things were patchy. The nogitsune had crept in and made itself at home, hiding itself so completely within him that he couldn’t figure out where it had started and he’d stopped. He remembered the nogitsune and its riddles, remembered the things it did and the people it hurt and its joy over the resultant chaos and grief.

Layered under that was the game between them, on the nemeton.

That was deep. Deeper than Stiles had wanted to go, but the nogitsune had burrowed into him, worn him like a glove, and knew his friends as he did. But at least it didn’t take the nemeton’s power.

There were times when it tried. It had flexed his body and hands, tried to get the surge in his veins, but no dice. Stiles didn’t know how, but he’d managed to block it.

He remembered another game where the nogitsune had sent a threat, here in the real world. Not a Go board, but Stiles’ chess set. Another strategy game, one Stiles knew how to play, and the nogitsune had set up the board badly, then labelled the pieces. It was a callous use of his friends’ names, but the nogitsune used his understanding of his friends to do it. Embarrassing, but oddly vilifying.

The others didn’t understand. Scott told him they realized marking Derek as the king was just an elaborate clue to get them to Derek’s loft for another showdown. What Scott and the others didn’t seem to know—though Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if Peter and Lydia did—was that the king is the prize in chess. Every move is calculated to either defend the king or capture the other side’s king. The queen is the most valuable piece on the board, but the king is the most important.

It wasn’t just an attention-grabbing clue. It was the nogitsune mocking Stiles. It laid out his darkest, deepest thoughts about his friends on a fucking chess board for its idea of the lolz. It hurt his people and his town and him, and it was _still_ hurting him.

No one would let him move from the couch in the McCall house.

He was so cold.

The kind of cold that told him this wouldn’t be over until the nogitsune had him or his power or one of them was dead.

Scott tried to help, but the only truly useful thing any of them could do was do was find Lydia and the nogitsune. Mourn Allison. Make a plan.

One thing after another after another.

He was there in Deaton’s clinic when Scott called Derek about the Hale box, the one inscribed with the triskelion and carved from the nemeton. After getting Derek’s agreement to use the box and promising to meet at the school, Scott handed the phone to Stiles with a puzzled look on his face. “He wants to talk to you.”

Stiles put the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

“Hey. Heard you’re back.”

“Yup. What have you been doing?” The words came out bitterly.

“Looking for you, actually. And trying not to be charged for a crime against the yakuza.”

“. . . What?”

“I know. It’s . . . I don’t know. It came out of the blue and now it’s blown over. Just unnecessary.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when the others got you out. I was fighting Argent, thanks to the nogitsune. Uh.” Derek cleared his throat. “Look, I want you to know I would have been there. Instead of Peter. I wanted to be.”

Stiles’ throat went dry. “Okay.”

“Do you ever feel like there’s too much going on? I feel like I’m being blocked, distracted. Like there are other forces moving me around. There’s always something happening—it’s never just simple.”

“Yeah.” Stiles often thought that. “You remember the early days? I miss them.” When it was just him and Scott and figuring out wolf stuff with Derek. He’d seen Derek like every other day back then.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yeah. Me too.”

Stiles felt a smile bloom. “Still got that shirt, Miguel?”

Derek snorted. “Fuck you and your tiny shirts, Stiles. Listen, I wanted to know: did the nogitsune connect with the nemeton through you?”

“Oh my freaking _god_.” Stiles glanced over. Was Scott listening in? He didn’t seem to be—he was talking with Lydia and Deaton.

Stiles turned aside and lowered his voice. “How do you even _know_ about that?”

“Peter’s not the only one who knows how the nemeton and emissaries work.”

“I don’t . . . I’m not that. The connection isn’t strong.”

“But it’s there.”

“Yeah. It’s there.” Stiles closed his eyes. “And no, I don’t think the nogitsune did. It . . . it just got me.”

A pause. “That’s worse.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Derek huffed. “If I was going to tell anyone, I would’ve done it already. What I want to know is why you haven’t mentioned it.”

Since saving his dad from Jennifer, Stiles had read what he could find about wild magic. He tried experimenting, little things in his room, bigger things out in the Preserve, alone. Not often, because there was always some drama happening with his friends and monsters and lacrosse. So far he’d got nada. It was never consistent. It never did what he wanted. How could he possibly explain that?

“I didn’t want to. I can’t control it.”

“Ask Deaton for training. He’ll help you.”

He’d thought of that already. “He’d let it slip and I don’t want the others knowing. I just don’t.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “You could’ve told me.”

Seriously? “Uh, when? You haven’t exactly been around.”

“I know. It hasn’t been up to me. If it were, everything would be different. But . . . Stiles. Call me. If you want.”

Stiles let out an embarrassingly nervous laugh. “Dude, what? Seriously?”

“It’s called offering to help.”

“Normally you’re all growly and _rar_ at me.”

“Jesus. I’m going to hang up. Tell Scott I’ll bring the twins with me tonight. Be careful.” And the asshole hung up.

Stiles felt better. Still totally on death’s door, but more optimistic, and maybe a little happier.


	4. The Fourth Time

Being in a small enclosed space with a freaked-out werewolf wasn’t ever Stiles’ idea of fun. And sure, even though Derek was there—and man, life was looking up if he was in the enclosed space too—there was only so much one weakened omega could do against a younger beta. ‘Very powerful talisman’ his _ass_.

Derek was trying though.

More than Liam was.

“Alpha, beta, omega,” Liam chanted. He kept going until his voice turned into a snarl.

Oh man. Stiles pulled himself into the corner by the window. “Derek, I don’t think that, uh, ‘powerful’ talisman of self-control is working.”

Derek, ever fucking calm in the face of crazy, simply said, “Liam, say it again.”

Liam roared and lunged forward, lurching the truck to one side.

Yup, _totally_ working.

Up front Braeden swore and struggled to keep control of the truck. It lurched even more as she kept it on the road.

Stiles pressed himself as flat as he could into the back of the seat, and Derek angled himself in front of Stiles as Liam strained against the cuffs. One broke and claws swiped at them. Derek grabbed Liam’s hand, his back pressing up against Stiles’ feet.

“Derek?” Braeden called from the front.

Given Derek was busy, Stiles said, “I think we’re gonna need to go a little faster.”

Liam struggled with Derek, eyes shining gold and uncomprehending.

Derek grunted out, “Keep going.”

Liam pulled until the second cuff broke, and suddenly he was at Derek’s throat.

“ _Liam!_ ” Stiles grabbed one of Liam’s arms and put all the force he could into it because no fucking way was Derek going to die at the hands of one of _Scott’s_ betas, not after everything they’d been through.

He. Derek. After everything _Derek_ had been through.

Stiles jerked back one arm while Derek held back the other and they exchanged a look.

“A certain something would be incredibly useful right now. You sure you can’t control it?” Derek asked.

Stiles cursed as Liam tried to wrench his arm free. “I _told_ you so.”

“Yeah? You used it to get past the Calaveras and help me, you used it to hold down Brett in the clinic, you seemed to read my freaking mind just now, and you’re holding off a shifted beta—” Liam lunged anew and Derek snarled at him while pushing back “—yeah. No handle on it at all. Sure.”

Stiles panted as he held on for actual life. Okay, _maybe_ he’d noticed a pattern over the last year—Liam roared, claws inching towards their faces. “Now _really_ isn’t the time.”

Derek rolled his eyes then shoved at Liam, grabbing both his arms and letting Stiles move back to relative safety.

Liam snapped his jaws. Derek snapped back. “Focus!”

“Yeah, not sure ‘alpha, beta, omega’ is resonating with him,” Stiles pointed out.

Derek glared at him. “Well, do _you_ know any other mantras?!”

Stiles’ thoughts whirred and . . . “Yeah, I do. Liam!” Liam turned to him. “Liam—what three things cannot long be hidden?”

Liam looked confused, then returned to trying to rip Derek’s throat out.

Stiles threw himself back into the fray to stop him. Liam needed to find control because him wolfing out was the absolute last thing anyone needed right now. “Liam, look at me.” He pointed at himself. _Me, notice me, focus on me_. The connection glowed, his veins thrummed. “What three things cannot long be hidden? What three things?”

He stared at Liam, his veins burning slightly as the power churned.

 _Liam, you’re also human._ Listen to me. _The three things: the sun, the moon, the truth._

Liam calmed. Slightly.

Swallowed.

“The sun, the moon, the truth.”

Yeah, that was it.

Liam kept chanting it. Stiles pushed Liam’s shaking hands off Derek, watched the mantra take effect. The claws retracted, the gold receded, and his face returned to classic twink cuteness.

Derek was wide-eyed. Braeden kept glancing back nervously.

Stiles grabbed Derek’s bicep—for comfort, to make sure he was all right, something—and leaned back as Liam chanted to himself. They were probably going to die tonight anyway, but he didn’t want it to happen here.

Derek patted his hand. “Good job.”

Liam retreated into himself and Braeden returned her attention to the road.

Derek leaned towards Stiles, eyes steady on Liam. “You got a handle on it.”

“. . . Maybe.”

Derek snorted. “Typical. Does Scott know?”

Stiles glanced at Liam. He seemed unaware of their conversation, muttering with his eyes closed. Stiles still lowered his voice. “No.”

“Still?”

“Things are going batshit crazy here, Derek, or haven’t you noticed that? This stupid deadpool, another pack, Lydia, Scott adding clones of this guy”—pointing at Liam—“to the pack, assassins in town, freaking Kate back from the dead . . . _you_.” His voice may have cracked on that last part but Stiles manfully ignored it (and hoped Derek would too).

Derek frowned.

“I don’t want to throw this into the mix. I don’t want anyone to know.” How to explain this without sounding totally nuts? “I keep having this feeling, Derek. In my gut. This idea that this isn’t how things are meant to be. Things could be simpler. Better. They could make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore, it’s all just . . .” Words escaped him. And yeah, he sounded nuts.

Stiles ran his fingers through his hair.

Derek stared at him, Liam apparently forgotten. “Meaningless action.”

He believed him? Stiles slumped against the window. “Yeah. Action and reaction.” He took in the contour of Derek’s cheekbones, the sharp jaw and harsh line of his mouth. _Damn_. “Stuff happens and we react to it because _we_ have to. No one else. The last few months, they’ve been like someone else’s life. Like, someone else’s idea of what my life should be like. I had plans, I had ideas, but what I want doesn’t seem to actually happen anymore. This power? It’s mine in a way nothing else has been for a long time. It won’t fit into how things are, not neatly or in a way that’s actually related to me and what I want.” He raised his gaze to Derek’s eyes. “And that feeling of everything being wrong is strongest when I’m with you. Which doesn’t happen these days. I don’t know why.”

A muscle in Derek’s amazing jaw worked and, with a last glance at Liam, he slumped back as well.

Fuck. Derek probably thought he was being stupid as usual. Stiles closed his eyes. “Forget it.”

“No. I know exactly what you mean.”

Stiles looked at him again.

Derek had his arms crossed and was glowering into space. “Sometimes I think you’re my anchor solely because you drive me fucking crazy, you know that? Mouthing off and being a total idiot ninety percent of the time. But you said exactly what I keep feeling.” His mouth twisted. “I think this isn’t how my life is supposed to be. It’s just a—a gut instinct. A feeling. Which means nothing, right? Every time I think it, I wonder if I’m going crazy. Because life is what it is. I can’t change what’s happened.” He sighed. “It doesn’t help that every time I try to leave, I keep being drawn back.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Derek turned to him. “It’s not up to you—or me. I think that’s just how it’s going to be. Scott’s the alpha and he’s creating a new pack. That’s how things are.” Yeah—and now that Stiles was thinking about it, when had _Scott_ become the centre of everything? “Beacon Hills has its alpha.”

“Its alpha should be a Hale.”

Derek shook his head, stopped, then nodded. “Yeah. It should.”

He reached over and picked up Stiles’ hand. Squeezed it.

His hand was warm.

Stiles’ heart hammered, and he knew Derek had to be able to hear it—Liam too—but he didn’t move his hand.

Neither did Derek.

They spent the rest of the drive in silence.

Liam snapped out of his control meditation once the truck stopped. Some banter later, and Stiles thought they might have a chance. Not the pack—him and Derek, to figure this . . . _thing_ out.

He should’ve known.

Derek stepped out the truck and the berserker went straight for him, threw him around like a rag doll, then punched holes in him until Braeden shot it enough to put it down.

And Stiles stood there, staring in disbelief.

Because, somehow, whatever they were mired in, it _knew_.

And Derek was hurt. Again. Possibly lethally. And telling them to go to Scott. Again. To leave him behind. _Again_.

Stiles didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to keep leaving Derek.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

His inner darkness roiled while his connection to the nemeton swelled. Stiles wanted to give into it, but the undeniable truth was that Scott desperately needed them, and Stiles wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t care. Not yet.

Derek locked eyes with him. Nodded. _Go. It’ll be okay_.

So Stiles went. Reluctantly, but he did. As he stepped away, he felt that knowledge of wrongness and misplacement twist in him. His veins burned. The feeling subsided with every step.

He stopped and looked back.

Derek was watching him go.

_Fuck this._

He imprinted Derek’s face into his mind, every shadow and grimace. Maybe he had to go, but if he trusted anyone here with Derek, Braeden would be that person. She’d make sure he got through the night. And once tonight was over, things would be different.

Because Stiles was done.

He turned and jogged into La Iglesia.

 

When he came back out, tired and bruised in the sunrise, Derek was okay again—whole, smiling, healthy. At least, for the three minutes he took to see that everyone was all right, and that Scott was there, before getting into a truck with Braeden and driving away.

Stiles watched him go. He hoped Derek would manage to stay away this time. But he couldn’t pretend it didn’t sting. So much for being Derek’s anchor. For being Derek’s . . . anything.

It didn’t matter. Until the next supernatural stupidity showed up, Stiles had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ~meta~


	5. The Fifth Time

The pain bit deep and Stiles screamed. A feral instinct kicked in and he struggled. Wrenched the hand off his shoulder to see a circle of teeth in the hand’s palm that kicked _fuck this_ mode up several notches. Butted his head back and the supernatural asshole reeled away, arms loosening instantly. Stiles lunged for the wrench sitting on his Jeep then swung it around blindly.

Donovan went down like a lead balloon.

Donovan?

Shit. Donovan.

Stiles backed away. When he saw Donovan rising to his hands and knees, met his rage-filled eyes, Stiles turned and ran full pelt for the school.

_Getawaygetawaygetaway_

He tore through the hallways, searching for help. It _had_ to be the school instead of the hospital or the sheriff’s office. At least in those places there would be people and easy weapons. What was here that would help him?

Fuck fuck fuck he needed somewhere with hiding spaces, somewhere with _options_.

He reached the intersection between upstairs, the basement, and outside to the library. Hearing doors thud elsewhere in the building, he opted for the library.

Which was shut. Doors locked. Stupid fucking—

Out came his card. One swipe and he was in. He cast about for a place to hide, wondering if the second level was—

Someone shook the doors furiously.

Never mind.

Stiles leaped for the closest bookshelf.

Donovan came in and began monologuing. Stiles gripped his wrench and held back blinding fury as Donovan spouted his cute shitty ideas about Stiles’ dad.

This kid knew nothing. Nothing.

Stiles could reach out and rip his head off without moving a finger.

He could send the bookshelf over with a small push.

With the rage and power simmering in him, he could send the building up in flames.

No way in hell was Stiles letting this guy anywhere near him or his dad.

Shit, his hands were shaking.

He was above this. Stiles was too familiar with the darkness in him to give into it. Donovan didn’t know shit, but Stiles wasn’t going to do anything to the kid. Not with his power. He’d lasted this long, he wouldn’t be found out now.

Nope, he’d have to get out this the way he normally did—smarts, a well-aimed punch, and sheer blind luck.

Donovan ran out of steam and headed up the stairs. Stiles watched him go and stepped carefully away from his hiding spot, closer to the last bookcase in the section. He listened carefully as footsteps sounded above, then faded.

Had he stopped? Was he looking around? Trying to be clever?

Who cared. This was his opportunity to leave.

Stiles waited a heartbeat, then made for the door—

Only for hands to grab his neck from behind. Stiles struggled, batting at them with the wrench, then was pulled backwards through the bookcase. He landed heavily, eyes shut against the books falling on him. Dropped the wrench.

Donovan pulled him up, landed hits, then Stiles found himself slammed into the scaffolding next to the bookcase. He jabbed his elbow back and sent Donovan to the floor.

Quickest escape was up.

He started climbing.

Donovan yelled in pain and rage.

Seconds later, Stiles’ leg was held tight. _Fuck fuck fuck_. He kicked out instinctively as Donovan said something about eating his leg. He looked down to see Donovan’s eyes turn metallic white, his jaw open to expose anglerfish teeth, and _yup_ , time to get _the fuck_ away.

He lunged up another rung, kicking his leg as best he could and wishing he had a knife or a sword or _something_ that would actually help him—

Oh. There was a ring lock above him. It held up a supporting bar to the frame on Donovan’s side—if Stiles could pull it out, that would bring part of the scaffolding down and force Donovan away from him.

Good enough.

He surged up, fighting against Donovan’s grip. His bloodied fingers slipped on the bar. Missed. Inhuman hissing below him gave him the impetus needed to force himself up— _really reach_ —and his fingers somehow curled into the ring lock. He yanked it out with all his strength.

The frame next to him collapsed. Bars and a board rained down, shaking the scaffolding. Stiles hung on like a leech, relieved to have his leg safe. Then he heard the sound of something slicing into flesh.

A slow twist of dread unfurled inside his stomach. He looked down.

Donovan was impaled by a bar.

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

He hadn’t wanted that.

Stiles hung on a moment, disbelieving, then carefully stepped down off the scaffolding.

Shit.

Whatever the kid was, he wasn’t a werewolf. He wouldn’t heal from an injury like that. He was having trouble breathing, and didn’t seem to realize he’d been skewered. He was bleeding out.

Stiles inched forward, then grabbed the bar, intending to help.

Donovan stared at him, the rage and hunger still there. He snarled and hissed, teeth bared. Stiles stared at him—was he _still_ trying to kill him?

Donovan gave a few heaving breaths, then closed his eyes and sank back under his own weight. Dead.

Just like that.

Stiles let go of the bar and stepped back.

Had . . .

Had that really just happened?

Just like that?

How could someone die _just like that_?

It wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t seen people die before, but this was somehow more . . . more intimate. More real. And even though there was a black strain of relief running through him, the horror and disbelief was worse. Much worse.

The next thing he knew, he had the library phone in his hand and was listening to the 911 operator tell him the line was only for emergencies. When he knew they were sending a cop around, he hung up.

He went to the door, noted they’d need to get in, and propped it open with a book.

Then a phone vibrated.

Shit.

 _His_ phone.

That Donovan had in his pocket.

Stiles couldn’t leave that behind. He went up to Donovan, eyeing him—because a body coming back to life wasn’t the weirdest thing Beacon Hills had ever seen—and gently pulled the phone out of Donovan’s pocket. He cancelled the call and fled.

There was no time. He had to get out of the area. The police would be there soon, casing the place, and if they saw him, saw his car, he’d be screwed.

He didn’t get away in time—instead, he backed Roscoe into the shadows and waited for the officer to call it in.

Nothing about this was right.

Stiles didn’t . . . he never thought he’d cause someone else’s death.

Donovan fucking tried to _kill him_ and Stiles knew that, he _knew that_ , but he never wanted anyone to die. Not even that psycho freak.

Stiles tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Too much adrenaline and low-level panic in his system. 

He had literal blood on his hands.

Fuck, he didn’t want to go to jail. He didn’t. But it had been self-defence—and how would he prove that, huh? Show off Donovan’s freaky extra mouths to the police? That would blow all this supernatural stuff out of the water.

Stiles wished Derek was here. Derek would know what to say. Derek would probably have handled it better.

He missed him. Not that he blamed Derek for finally getting away. Stiles was just bouncing from one bad situation to another these days. Beacon Hills no longer made sense like it used to.

Stiles didn’t make sense to _himself_ anymore. The old Stiles would never have been in a situation like that.

Fuck. This wasn’t helping. Come on. Stuff like tonight happened to people all the time. Self-defence, self-defence, self-defence.

A kid was dead.

A fucked-up one, sure, but a kid. Just like him.

The cop didn’t seem at all agitated. Stiles turned on his police receiver and heard the guy call it in as a prank.

 _What?_ Didn’t the guy go into the library?

He waited for the officer to leave before running back to the library.

Which was spotless. Like it hadn’t happened. That was bizarre, because he hadn’t imagined it.

Right? Sometimes, after the nogitsune, he still . . .

He spotted a familiar bar with an odd stain stacked against the scaffolding. He touched it and his finger came back red. Well.

Okay, he hadn't imagined it, but this was worse now. Someone had cleared this up and taken Donovan’s body.

Someone knew.

Why? What was going on?

And what the hell was he going to do?

He went home and paced his room, too wired to sleep. He decided to write things out on his board, but first he picked up his phone and did what he’d started doing after Mexico: text Derek.

Derek had replied the first few times, then stopped. Stiles wasn’t sure why. He still texted though.

_Hey. I just did something terrible. I really need you._

He stared at that text, then sent it before he second-guessed himself.

Derek didn’t reply.

 

Much later, when Scott had somehow gotten the wrench—the stupid fucking wrench—and was bleating at Stiles about ‘there’s always a choice’ and ‘at some point, it’s not self-defence anymore,’ Stiles felt it again. The sense of misplacement. Everything he said came out wrong—Donovan was trying to kill _him_ , not just his dad. He didn’t have a choice, and it happened too quickly. He was human, only human, he couldn’t fight like the others. He didn’t have the options others had.

It had been an accident.

It had been self-defence.

It was something Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about.

And Scott was . . . The way he stood in the rain, acting like he’d been there, like he’d known what Stiles had faced, like it would’ve been easy to _find another way_ when Stiles had been seconds from death—this wasn’t the Scott Stiles knew. This guy was someone else. The Scott Stiles knew would’ve asked questions. Would’ve heard him out and understood. Would’ve remembered that context and intent matters. Would’ve been a friend. Would’ve been someone Stiles had gone to right away for help.

Wouldn’t have this black and white thinking.

Wouldn’t have implied Stiles needed to repent then refuse to give him any means of doing that.

Wouldn’t have walked away.

Not for this.

Not for an _accident_.

It broke his heart that Scott was just another person Stiles didn’t recognize anymore.

When he finally mustered the energy to get back into his Jeep, he checked his phone. No text from Derek.

Nothing was right.

He closed his eyes and tried not to cry.

Life had to be better than this. It just had to be. A Beacon Hills that wasn’t overrun with bizarre chimeras and monsters. A Scott who resembled the dorky guy Stiles had grown up with. A life where Stiles didn’t have to fight supernatural creatures every other hour. Where he didn’t have to struggle with the knowledge that despite not using the nemeton’s power to hurt Donovan, he’d still gotten the kid killed.

He sighed and opened his eyes.

The rain had stopped. Scott emerged from the clinic and ran up to the Jeep, papers in his hand. Stiles stared at him. Scott gestured to the window, a friendly smile on his face, so Stiles opened it and Scott leaned in. “Dude, I’m glad you didn’t go yet. I forgot to give your notes back.” He dumped the papers on Stiles’ lap, then frowned at him. “Hey, you okay? You look like someone died.”

Stiles gaped at him. “Seriously?”

Scott grinned. “Yeah, you _seriously_ look bad. Go see your dad. I have to work, so can’t talk now, but if you wanna go over it, text me later. Bye.” He ran back into the clinic.

Notes?

 _Text me later_?

Wait, Scott had been wearing a different hoodie. And his bike wasn’t outside the clinic. And . . .

Stiles picked up the papers. They were covered in his handwriting—history notes. He didn’t remember writing these. He glanced at the passenger seat, and yeah, there was his backpack. But it hadn’t been there before—it had fallen into the footwell, hadn’t it?

His phone buzzed: _Dad_. He answered. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey kiddo, where are you?”

His dad was supposed to be on shift. “At the animal clinic. Why? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong, except that dinner’s gonna be cold unless you get your butt over here now. Why?” His dad’s voice turned suspicious. “What did you do? I thought you were dropping Scott off.”

What the hell? Dinner? “I—I was. I did? Uh, I’ll be over in a few.”

“See you soon.” His dad hung up and Stiles stared at the phone. It was different as well—not the same brand as his usual phone.

He blinked and the rain returned, casting a gloom over the interior of the car. The phone in his hand was back to normal. The notes had disappeared, and his bag was in the passenger footwell.

What the hell had just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shockingly (<\--- sarcasm), I did not enjoy season 5. (Or season 4, but season 5 was where I was like, "I give up, this show is officially junk.")


	6. The Last Time

It was surprisingly difficult to pull away from Beacon Hills. Stiles honestly hadn’t thought it would take college—well, Quantico, and the FBI Academy—to get him out. He’d tried to slip back into that alternative universe, the one where he clearly hadn’t accidentally killed someone, Scott and him were solid, and there weren’t constant supernatural emergencies. Every attempt had been an utter failure. Once he’d even sat on the nemeton stump for three hours, trying to channel the energy through him to slip into that other place. It hadn’t worked—he’d known because he’d put his phone in front of him as a gauge and it hadn’t changed.

Graduating high school and moving on like most other high schoolers was apparently what it took.

It was kind of banal.

Not that he wasn’t grateful—he totally was—but he could’ve skipped the part that involved surviving the Dread Doctors, the Beast, and the Wild Hunt. Especially the Wild Hunt. He’d never be at home in a train station again.

At least he could say he was the only eighteen-year-old in the internship with field experience and a probably significant amount of repressed battle trauma.

Well. He hoped he was the only one. Looking around the class, there were a few who might’ve Seen Shit too. Definitely there were people who’d lost others.

Derek hadn’t been in touch with anyone in Beacon Hills since he stopped answering Stiles’ texts. Stiles had no idea where he was, if he was safe, if he was alive, nada. But he totally didn’t care _at all_ because Derek wasn’t his problem anymore.

Neither was Beacon Hills, or the pack, or the monsters of the semester. No doubt _something_ was happening while he was away, but Stiles didn’t care. He didn’t examine why too closely. Because _come on_ , he was at the FBI Academy! He was going to learn from the elite in law enforcement for six months, and it all started here, in this classroom with his fellow interns.

Their teacher started talking about the values of the FBI and Stiles couldn’t stop himself from asking question after question, thoroughly annoying his new teacher. Not that it mattered; the guy would have to learn how Stiles operated at some point.

But the spittake at the footage of a topless Derek—who was apparently on the FBI’s suspect list for mass freaking murder—was totally unintentional and definitely deserved the expression of utter despair from the teacher.

It also felt familiar in a stomach-churning way. This felt like . . . well. Like a route back to Beacon Hills.

It was Derek. The choice was clear. He had to get on that investigation.

 

Derek sought him out after nightfall. Stiles had slipped away from the camp, settled at the base of a huge oak, and waited. A black wolf emerged from the shadows and transformed into a very naked Derek Hale.

Who sat down opposite Stiles and said, “Hey,” so easily that Stiles wanted to punch him.

Stiles waved his phone. “You stopped answering my texts, asshole.”

Derek eyed him. “I lost my phone so long ago I don’t even remember where or how. Nice to see you too, Stiles. What the hell are you doing with the FBI?”

“Interning.”

Derek blinked. “You know, I shouldn’t be surprised by that.”

“Good. ’Cos I was _majorly_ surprised to see you’re a suspect for mass murder.”

Derek scowled. “Do I look like a mass murderer to you?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow and held back a grin. He might be angry at him, but it was so _good_ to see him again. Even though the night time gloom was making it extra difficult to appreciate him fully. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

An annoyed huff. “Right, yeah. I shouldn’t bother. Not with you.”

“Seriously though, what the hell happened?”

Derek told a story that started with trying to investigate a series of murders and ended with being framed for those murders. He was simultaneously on the run and trying to nail down the pack responsible. He’d come to North Carolina to contact a group of hunters who he hoped would be willing to help or at least provide information.

“Shit,” Stiles said at the end of it.

“No kidding.” Derek shifted his weight. “I wanted to come back to Beacon Hills, but couldn’t risk bringing the town to their notice.”

Stiles could give him that. “Makes sense. We had enough to deal with.”

“Oh?”

Stiles filled him in. By the time he got to the internship and the SWAT operation that the FBI was planning to conduct on the hunter group, Derek was strangely somber. “I had no idea that was going on back home. It just never stops, huh?”

“Nope.”

“No doubt something’s happening as we speak.”

“Oh, for sure.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“I got a grip on . . . things.” Stiles held up his hands and wiggled his fingers.

Derek snorted. “It’s called being an emissary.”

“Yeah, well, I can do small things on my own, and force some bigger stuff, but the amazing scary real power only responds in time of need. True need. That’s the pattern. Everything else about being an emissary is lore, botany, medicine, and belief.” Stiles thought a moment about Deaton. “And being cryptic.”

“That sounds about right.” Stiles couldn’t see it, but he could hear the smile in Derek’s voice. “I’m surprised Scott hasn’t called you back. The group must be lost without you.”

Thinking of how they handled the Wild Hunt from the living side, Stiles had to disagree. “Nah, they can manage.”

“It’s good to see you again.”

Stiles felt his face heat and he fumbled for his phone. “Oh my god. Say that again. I need to record it.”

“Stiles.”

“I’m serious. You’re never happy to see me. This has to be an early sign of the end of days or someth—”

Derek grabbed his wrist. “Stiles. Shut up for ten seconds, would you? I’ve been on my own for a year. So yeah, I’m happy to see you. Deal.” He pulled Stiles’ arm forward and held it up to his face.

Stiles heard a deep breath, then his arm was released. _Pack_ , he realized. _Derek misses having a pack._

“Dude,” he said. “We can do better than that.” He held open his arms.

The darkness did nothing to hide the intensity of Derek’s scowl. “No.”

Stiles got onto his knees and inched forward. “Come on, big guy. This is happening. Bring it in. Beacon Hills reunion, right here.”

He got up close, so close he could see Derek clearly, and wrapped his arms around him. The guy was warm, despite his lack of clothing, and his skin felt incredible against Stiles’ palms. Not that Stiles was paying attention to that.

Shit.

He still had it bad.

Derek hugged him back, taking another deep breath in the curve of Stiles’ neck.

See? This was nice. This was _more_ than nice. Stiles kinda wanted to stay like this forever.

Derek let him go first, moving away with a small sigh, but he slid his palms down Stiles’ arms to his hands. Stiles was reminded of their moment in the truck and his heart started thudding like it had that night. No doubt he was sending out chemosignals too.

Chemosignals.

Oh _no_.

How long had Derek known?

“Stiles, don’t be weird,” Derek said.

“I fucking can’t, you asshole.” Stiles tried to pull away but Derek didn't let go. “If you don’t want . . .” This? Me? “If you’re not interested and you don’t like how I react, don’t fucking do things like this.” He squeezed Derek’s hands.

Derek leaned in. “I’m interested, Stiles. You’re my anchor and you’re kind of a badass when you’re not being a klutzy moron.” Tiny flecks of blue lit up his eyes. His thumbs rubbed along Stiles’ knuckles. “It feels good to finally admit that. Give into it. I couldn’t say anything before. Mostly because you’re still crazy young—”

“I’m almost _nineteen_ , you dumbass—”

“And I’m twenty-five. When you’re my age, you’ll get it.”

The fuck? Stiles opened his mouth to tell him where to go and Derek dropped one hand to cover his mouth. “Quiet. And let me finish. I couldn’t say anything because of your age—it wouldn’t have been right, trust me on that—but also I just . . . _couldn’t_. That feeling we described, you know? I couldn’t say or do anything that wasn’t in the . . . I don’t know. That wasn’t what I was _supposed_ to say or do. Or something.”

Stiles knew what he meant.

Derek’s blue eyes glowed in the darkness. “I’ve thought a lot about we discussed last time—that feeling of not being in the right place and not doing the things we wanted. Right at this moment, it feels different, like the focus isn't on us, so I’m taking this chance to acknowledge what this is. And I think we should do something about it.”

“Me too.” It came out like _mfoo_ through Derek’s hand.

“You calmer now?”

Stiles nodded. Derek let his hand slip and Stiles leaned forward and gently kissed him. Quick, but enough that he finally knew what Derek’s lips felt like. And sweet baby jesus, he felt so good. So right. This was how they were supposed to be—Stiles knew it in his bones.

He leaned back and grinned at Derek. “I couldn’t not do that.”

Derek shook his head, a small smile on his face. “Uh-huh.”

“We’re going to figure this thing out, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“And we’ll do it together. We’re not going to be distracted by the latest supernatural disaster or by Beacon Hills. I can feel it. I _know_ it.”

Derek tilted his head slightly, that tiny smile growing. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But first we have to get the FBI off your back. That SWAT raid is meant to get you, dead or alive.” Stiles’ mind raced, ideas popping up.

Derek sat back, face turning thoughtful. “You know, this pack that’s killing people? They happen to operate a ketamine ring on the side. And I think the hunters could be persuaded to help with a non-supernatural cover up.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Oh. You don’t say.”

 

The raid turned into a discovery of Derek’s innocence and of the pack responsible for the murders. Stiles was glad he talked his way onto the team involved.

And sure, okay, the raid didn’t _exactly_ go as planned, but Stiles didn’t care after Derek carried him out of the building bridal-style. Derek wasn’t exactly openly affectionate, so it meant a lot to him. And his toe was freaking obliterated, which made it was _hard to walk_ so the help was _necessary_.

Of course, the whole incident brought out a nicer side of Derek. Sort of. When Stiles was back at the academy and in his dorm room, bandaged foot up on a cushion while studying, Derek showed up via his window, noted he was okay, and fell asleep on Stiles’ bed like that was a totally normal thing to do. And when Stiles needed to sleep and tried to wake him up so he could move, all Derek did was sleepily tell him off for standing on his foot and turn over. Stiles ended squashed on the very edge of the mattress.

It turned into a common pattern. Stiles was pretty sure Derek had the money to organize other accommodation, but he’d decided Stiles’ dorm room was good enough. Even though nothing further happened between them—Derek wanted to wait, which was fine—Stiles still liked it. More than liked it. Sleeping with Derek was freaking awesome. Waking up to that face every day was the best freaking thing since leaving Beacon Hills.

Derek’s proximity also let him try to harness that odd strangeness which swirled around them again. Stiles was almost certain it was a pull into that alternate universe, the one he’d briefly visited before. He couldn’t say why, but he was convinced that if he was supposed to go there, it had to be with Derek. However, no matter what books he found or what dubious websites he crawled, there was no concrete way of getting there. Any discussion of alternative universes was couched in theoretical terms. It sucked.

One evening, Stiles got so frustrated he threw a (copy of a) five-hundred year old book against the wall and blurted out, “This is pointless!”

Derek looked up from Stiles’ (their) bed, where he was doing something on his laptop. “What?”

“I can’t find anything. _Anything_. No rituals, no spells, no guidance. I want to get us out of here and I can’t figure out how.”

“What did you do last time?”

Stiles glared at him. “It just happened. One second I was in this Beacon Hills, and I _literally_ blinked, and there was the other Beacon Hills.”

“Uh-huh. What happened before that?”

Stiles swallowed. “I had a fight with Scott about Donovan.” Which was something he’d told Derek on that first night, as part of catching each other up—Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek would be okay with an anchor (and a boyfriend) who’d accidentally killed someone. Derek had said he wasn’t in a position to judge. “I felt like shit, like everything was wrong.”

Derek’s eyes were firmly on his. “Okay. What else?”

Stiles gestured. “The hell you mean, _what else_? What else is there? Scott was being a jerk and I didn’t understand him anymore, and the whole situation was fucked up like _everything_ has been fucked up and I just wanted _out_ of there.”

Ah.

That was it.

And by the looks of it, Derek got it too. “You told me your power responds to true need,” he reminded Stiles.

Stiles glared. “Yeah, well, the need’s always been there, but I have to know what I’m doing, you know?”

“I don’t think the need _has_ always been there. It fades when we’re not together. Even when we are, it's not exactly consistent.”

Stiles groaned in frustration. “Just once, could something be easy?”

“I don’t think so. Look.” Derek turned his laptop around. On the local Beacon Hills news site was a headline about mounting tensions between groups of people for no easily-identifiable reason.

A prickling rush ran down Stiles’ spine. That article looked innocuous enough, but he’d bet his meager life savings that something supernatural was behind it, something Scott and Lydia hadn’t told him about.

The six months were almost up. Derek’s name had been cleared. And abruptly, Stiles realized he didn’t have a plan for after the internship. That wasn’t like him. He drew a total blank, like college or further work hadn’t been set down for him.

But Beacon Hills had been.

He stared at Derek. “This means they’re in trouble.”

Derek nodded. “I think so.”

“I have the impression we’re supposed to go back.”

“Me too.”

Stiles gazed around the dorm room. He was doing well at the academy—he was (mostly) sure his instructors were impressed with him. And he liked this life. Studying, working, learning, helping the FBI, and coming home to his hot werewolf boyfriend.

It wasn’t fair that he had to drop this.

It wasn’t _right._

“I don’t want to go back,” he said.

“Me either.”

Stiles stood, certainty overpowering him. “If we do, we’re never going to get away again. We’ll be sucked back in, and whatever we’re fighting now will never stop.”

Derek sat up straighter. “You don’t know that, Stiles.”

“I do. _I do_. I don’t know how, but I do.” Stiles went over to the bed and straddled Derek’s body, moving the laptop out of the way. He gripped Derek’s shoulders and took in his unfairly gorgeous face. “I don’t think we’d be like this either.”

Derek’s hands settled on his hips and squeezed. “You think this alternative universe would be different?”

“Yes.”

Derek’s mouth flattened. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

Stiles shrugged. “Same way I know that if we stay, it’ll be the end of us as we are.”

Derek snorted. “Typical emissary bullshit. You’re a natural.”

“This isn’t funny! This is what I want. I want a life. I want you. I don’t want to lose what that we’ve got here.”

Derek’s face softened, but he shook his head. “Me too, Stiles. But if we go, we’ll be leaving our friends in trouble.”

Stiles groaned. “That’s how we keep getting sucked back in. We need to think beyond that.”

Those warm hands on Stiles’ hips rubbed comfortingly. And sexily. “I’ll go anywhere with you, Stiles, as long as I know someone, or something, will help our friends and our town in our place.”

Stupid, kind-hearted asshole. Stiles wanted him so much. He leaned forward and kissed him. “ _Fine_. That’s what we need. Something like . . . like projections or golems, lesser forms of us who’ll essentially _be_ us while we take up the lives we should have. The lives we need after all the fucked-up shit we’ve lived through.”

“Exactly.” Derek moved one hand up Stiles’ back, sending electricity buzzing through his veins. Derek’s eyes glowed blue. “Do that, Stiles.”

Stiles took a deep breath as Derek’s hand cupped the back of his neck. His veins burned. The power swelled. “Okay.”

They took a breath together and closed their eyes. Stiles burned, hotter than anything he’d felt before. It overwhelmed him, and if it wasn’t for Derek’s hands on his neck and hip, Stiles thought he would’ve lost where he started and fire began. Derek shuddered under him and Stiles felt something break from both of them. Something was left behind.

His body was engulfed in a brief moment of shocking numbness, where he was everywhere and nowhere, where he was himself and nothing at all—

Then he snapped back to himself and opened his eyes. He was in a slightly different dorm room. Books lay scattered around and Stiles’ laptop was on the floor instead of the desk. Derek wore clothes Stiles hadn’t seen before, but Stiles still had on the shirt and pants he’d worn to the academy that day.

Derek opened his eyes too and sat up abruptly, almost knocking Stiles off. “Holy shit. It worked.”

Someone banged on the door. “Hey! Stilinski! You got a visitor!”

Stiles glanced at Derek, who was grinning for some reason, and went to open the door. Someone he didn’t recognize stood with someone he did. Stiles gasped, then flung himself at his dad.

John hugged him tightly. “Hey, kiddo! It’s good to see you.”

Stiles was suddenly so glad he was there, at the Academy. “You came to see me?”

“Yeah. You sounded homesick the last time we spoke, so I thought I’d drive up for the weekend and surpri— Is that _Derek Hale_ in your room?”

Stiles turned around. Derek stood, hands jammed into his pockets. He uncertainly raised one hand to wave. “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Hi, Derek. Aren’t you a little far from your territory?” There was a weird edge to John’s voice. A kind of . . . police edge. Or a dad edge. It was worrying that Stiles couldn’t tell.

At least here his dad was still aware of werewolf stuff. _That_ was good. Stiles cleared his throat. “He’s, uh, also visiting me? This weekend?” He exchanged a confused look with Derek.

“I see. Do you often have the Alpha of Beacon Hills over for weekend visits, Stiles?”

Stiles breathed in. _Alpha_? “Uh. Not that often.”

“And Derek.” Derek snapped to attention. “When you told me the other day you were leaving Beacon Hills for a few days to meet other alphas for treaty discussions, you weren’t, in fact, telling the entire truth.”

Derek had the oddest expression on his face. “I, um, was meeting them . . . here? In Quantico?”

John Stilinski crossed his arms. “Uh-huh.”

Derek looked at Stiles, a clear cry for help in his eyes.

Stiles’ phone buzzed. He picked it up—different brand—and opened the message.

Scott: _Dude I just heard your dad is on his way to see you isn’t this a Derek weekend? BE READY._

Scotty was a little late on that one.

“You know, Derek,” his dad said, “my son may be an adult—”

Stiles gripped his arm. “ _Okay_ Dad, I think we need to go for lunch.”

“Lunch? It’s six o’clock.”

“I meant dinner. Let’s have dinner. But will you give us a minute first?”

His dad glanced between them, raised his eyebrows in that familiar expression which said _we will talk about this_ and left the room.

Stiles closed the door and went back to Derek.

Derek ran his hands through his hair. “I wasn’t ready for this conversation. Not yet.”

“You’re an _alpha_ , Derek!”

Derek nodded, a small smile on his mouth. “Yeah. I can feel it.”

Stiles still held his phone. He flicked through his messages, trying to skim them as quickly as he could. Most of his messages were just silly chats. Prior to Scott’s late message, they’d been discussing video games and comparing college/internship stories. The latest text from Lydia was _Yeah, come see me in Cambridge. If you ever get your act together, bring Derek._ The last message from Danny was a picture of him and Jackson grinning in front of Tower Bridge in London. Allison had sent through workout advice. There was a group chat called _packtacular_ that had videos of Erica and Boyd pranking each other in Beacon Hills, and Isaac complaining about the food at his college.

But no monsters.

No trouble in Beacon Hills.

They were all living their own lives.

And it seemed his dad had just found out that Derek and him were a thing.

He reeled.

Fuck.

They’d done it.

They were out.

And life seemed _incredible_.

“Stiles.” Derek reached for his hand. “Do _you_ still feel it?”

He had to focus, but yes, the connection was there. Tenuous, drained, maybe even changed, but it was there. Stiles didn’t know if it would fade or if he could reconnect with the nemeton here. But he decided it didn’t matter either way.

“I think so.” He grinned at Derek. “Ready for an awkward dinner with my dad?”

Derek rolled his eyes, then seemed to realize something. “This is going to be the worst thing that happens today, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

Derek kissed him, then reached for the door. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote the ending three times and I'm still not sure this is the best version - but I hope it works anyway.


End file.
